


Layman Scripts

by Pseudinymous



Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Everything in this story was a surprise, even to me, just have fun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 10:45:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7099663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pseudinymous/pseuds/Pseudinymous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny Fenton is in a coma. It was Jazz's turn to guard the portal, but she'd failed. She'd let a ghost through, based on nothing other than the heartfelt feeling that the ghost was being sincere. So what is she doing considering letting a second one through? Her compassion might well give her the first lead she's seen in over two years, but it's also going to cause some problems...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Layman Scripts

**Author's Note:**

> AO3 NOTE: This is an ongoing fic which has 17 chapters currently, with more on the way. Will be posting a new one each week until we're up to date. Author's Notes were accurate at time of writing though may not apply now.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> \--- 
> 
> Am I a little bit obsessed with the Ghostwriter? Maybe… shut up, he's cool even if he doesn't get that much attention. ;P
> 
> Anyway, this floated around in my head for a bit while I was studying for my exams, and I decided to get it down in my free moments. This is MUCH less cracky than some other non-fanfic things that I'm writing at the moment. You can expect this to be fairly serious, but I'm also aiming for light-hearted as well. How could a story that features Jazz and the GW as main characters not be just a little light-hearted, anyway?
> 
> As usual, PP never happened. Criticism is welcome, I'm 20 guys, I think I can handle it. :P Not sure if I will romantically pair anyone up, but at the same time I'm Not Saying No.

The Ghostwriter knew it wasn't a good idea.

There were traps, said the whisperings. Terrible things would happen to those unable to defend themselves, and those who were? Even they came back nursing their wounds, howling at their failures. Mind you, most ghosts capable of defending themselves were also seeking death and destruction. The Ghostwriter sought none of that; he just wanted to visit.

But he'd left all of this too long. If he'd wanted to visit earth, he should have done it two years ago, when the city that portal came out in wasn't laden with painful traps and terrible consequences. When the ghost hunters were mere bumbling fools. But no! He had to have the urge now, when it was treacherous and when the stakes were so high.

Being stuck in a library for so long could do that to you, though. Surrounded by fictitious works of both your own and others' creation just isn't enough; a need to see things in the flesh, to be your own story… that seeps its way into your mind as well. And the Ghostwriter knew this better than just about anyone else he could think of; you sat there, being your little introverted self, having fun every day with the things you created and ignoring reality at every point – sometimes even rewriting it a bit to suit your needs. It was a joyful life… but it wasn't really a life. In more ways than one.

The part of him that knew that this wasn't truly living was the one urging him to take that step out into the open, into the Old New World. It wasn't dangerous to what he used to be, but very dangerous to what he was now.

The portal was before him. He could make this venture whenever he wanted, but he could also turn around and go home. Both were viable. Both had reasoning. But some parts of that reasoning were more rational than others.

He didn't close his eyes, and he flew through.

The writer was confronted with a sea of ectoplasmic ooze, but certainly not in the same way the Ghost Zone radiated its strange energy. This ectoplasm was refined, different, experimented upon. All of this also wasn't particularly surprising when one realised this was Jack and Madeline Fenton's basement, but nevertheless it made the Ghostwriter's blood run cold… if by blood you meant ectoplasm, and by cold you meant freeze.

The alarm didn't go off immediately, so he assumed he was here on a lucky day; obviously it'd been turned off. Without the blinding lights or blaring alarms he took his time, invisibly, and absorbed the place. In its own way it was a source of inspiration, unlike what he'd ever seen in person before. Every part of it was worth observation. In the absence of any apparent threat, the Ghostwriter peered in draws, opened up cabinets, and inspected some things that he felt wise to never, ever touch. He looked up and down and sideways and then he turned around and-

"Th-that's an ecto-gun barrel…" he stammered, staring into the glowing metallic abyss. The person behind it shoved the end into his nose, knocking the ghost's glasses into a position quite askew. "Uhh… oh, oh God."

"You seem awfully scared for a ghost," said the person behind that awful contraption. Flowing red hair could be seen on either side of the gun, and just above it a woman's face twisted into anger. "Didn't think I could see you while you were invisible, huh? Someone hasn't kept up with the times."

"H-how?" the Ghostwriter managed, mind whirring into defence mode. Defence mode consisted entirely of how can I escape, and wasn't particularly helpful when that gun would likely go off at the smallest sign of a wrong movement. "Look, I just wanted to have a look around, I'm not here to cause problems!" he began protesting, which seemed like the only reasonable option. "Can't we- how about we just talk about this for a second, okay? Without the gun?"

The girl, whom the Ghostwriter suddenly recognised as a much older-looking Jasmine Fenton to what he remembered, did not lower her weapon. "The gun stays," she declared, making no attempt to clear up how she could see the invisible plane, "And you're going right back into the Ghost Zone."

"But… I just wanted to have a look at the Real World," the Ghostwriter managed. "It's been years. Surely you're not going to begrudge me that, child?"

"You're a ghost," she said firmly, robotically. "I can't let you through."

There it was. An uncertainty. A crack in her hardened exterior. The Ghostwriter pounced on it like a cat on a cornered mouse. "Do you really believe I'm inherently evil? That all ghosts seek to destroy?"

Jazz remained silent.

"… I don't want to hurt you. I don't want you to hurt me, either. Maybe I am a ghost, but I'm still just a person."

It was working. Somehow, he'd managed to get through to her just a little bit. Not completely, though, because although the gun had been removed from his face and that look of pure hatred had dissipated into honest insecurity, the ecto-gun remained pointed squarely at him.

"I let a ghost through once," Jazz began. "She told me that she just wanted to see the sun set."

This time the Ghostwriter remained very, very silent. He didn't like where this was going.

"When I stopped pointing this gun at her, she broke both of my arms, put my brother in a coma, and disappeared."

The Ghostwriter's mind felt like it had jammed in position. He knew the family well, both through his poem and the rumblings of the ghosts that lived around him. Jazz Fenton had only one brother – the infamous Danny Phantom – and when the Ghostwriter thought about it, he hadn't seen or heard of the boy in a very long time.

"… The Phantom boy is in a coma?" he hazarded, carefully avoiding the topic of what had put him there. "I never knew. I just assumed I'd shut myself in too long to hear about him."

"Shut yourself in?"

"I read and write too much. As a consequence I very rarely have need to venture outside," he sighed. "I was hoping to get away with it. When you've been in the same place all alone for that long-"

"-Sometimes you just have to get outside…" Jazz finished, before lowering an eyebrow. "I've never heard of a ghost that just reads and writes books."

"You're looking at one. We're not all barbarians, you know! Your brother certainly wasn't, was he?"

Defensive mode leapt to the rescue. "Of course he wasn't!" Jazz rallied. "He was a good person, and he didn't deserve what he got for it! He protected all of us!"

The Ghostwriter decided to leave the silence right where it was. This was an old tactic he'd learnt from reading far too many novels; if one person is silent for too long, the other will often just start trying to fill it all up, as if a vacuum was taking words right out of their mouths.

"Why should I trust you over any other ghost I've caught?" she questioned, right on queue.

Leeway. Not particularly good leeway, mind you – it was the type of leeway that challenged one to prove something impossible, and he was fairly sure that Jazz was aware of that. Somewhat defeated, the Ghostwriter drooped mid-air. "I can't prove that to you; it's impossible to guarantee my intentions, short of you finding some way to read my mind."

More silence. Jazz stirred uncomfortably.

"What if… we made an agreement?"

"An agreement?"

"Go back in there and bring back a book you've written. After that, you'll let me tag you with a satellite tracker so I can come and hunt you down if you're lying to me."

The Ghostwriter looked into the girl's eyes in such a way that suggested he didn't quite believe her, that in her current state of mind getting off with just this seemed too good to be true. In fact it probably was, as that ecto-gun was still primed and ready to cause some pretty severe, painful damage; he was going to put his bets on the idea that there'd be some hidden clauses to this shaky agreement. But the world outside… the writer realised that after all these years, he'd give quite a lot to see it.

"I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Go." Jazz commanded, training that ecto-gun on him all the way back into the portal, until he was gone. The Ghostwriter, hardly able to believe what was happening, flew back home as fast as he could.

Jazz, on the other hand, could hardly believe what was happening either. What on earth was she doing, giving a ghost a pass with just a satellite tag? Her parents would be entirely against it. Even she was entirely against it, to a certain extent. No, she didn't believe all ghosts were inherently evil, but at the same time, every one that she'd ever seen had at least enough power to do some damage to the city or its people. Why was this ghost who looked like a wireframe wrapped up in a coat and glasses any different? The only way complete safety could be guaranteed was if the Ghost Zone was entirely quarantined from the Real World….

But there was something about him that seemed a lot more… docile than other ghosts. Even though that one other female ghost she'd let through had seemed docile at the time, somehow this one felt a lot more sincere, trustworthy. Was that a potentially dangerous trait she should look out for when guarding the portal?

Jazz had never felt so confused about herself in her life.

Uselessly, she looked at the ecto-gun she was supposed to be protecting the city with. With the Fenton Portal Genetic Lock near-permanently damaged, guarding the place in shifts was all she and her parents could manage, and was a duty well-supported by those living in Amity Park. Ironically, the ghost attacks had died down a lot since Danny had been defeated and left in a coma, as if most of them were simply coming through to get back at him.

"This is such a mess." Jazz scowled, more at herself than anyone else. "I should have just told him never to come back."

She put the ecto-gun on the table. Her thoughts zoomed back to Danny, who still lay lifelessly in a bed in the Amity Park General Hospital, with no sign whatsoever of waking up. None of the doctors could determine why he was in a coma. A few kept suggesting a knock to the head, but couldn't find a shred of evidence for the trauma. Fenton gadgets had even stopped 'malfunctioning' around him, too; it was like he'd taken a trip through the Fenton Ghost Catcher and his ghost half had taken all of his consciousness with it, spirited away somewhere by that awful, filthy liar of a ghost. How she'd done it, Jazz would never know.

And after all of this, Danny's secret still lay with her, Sam and Tucker, who mutually agreed not to tell his parents. In any case, they had very little proof – with his ghost half seeming to have completely disappeared, there was no definitive way for them to show Maddie and Jack who he was. Circumstantial evidence wouldn't hold. The idea that anyone could be half-ghost was just too far-fetched to hold any water without proof staring one right in the eyes.

It was times like now that she really needed Danny back. Her little brother understood more about ghosts than she or her parents ever would.

… And suddenly, it dawned on her.

Ghosts would always know a whole lot more about how their world and their physics worked, simply because that's what they existed with. If a nonviolent ghost that wrote his days away could exist, then why couldn't a philosopher ghost? A mathematician? Physicists, scientists, thinkers. They all died at some point, didn't they? Hell, even former ghost hunters…

The writer, she could use him. Even if he didn't know what to do or what had happened to Danny, even if he was a self-declared shut-in, thinkers tended to know other thinkers. It was like Nikola Tesla and Mark Twain. Perhaps it was a lead. A dangerous, perilous lead. Jazz handled the ecto-gun once more, putting the safety on and thumbing the trigger thoughtfully. How far was she willing to go with this? How much could she trust this ghost? Trust, after all, takes years to create and just seconds to destroy…

Jazz screwed up her eyes and told herself "The tracking device will be sufficient.".

"Sufficient for what?"

Startled, the girl's head snapped to attention. The ghost had returned, clutching a leather-bound untitled book within his cold, grey hands. He was looking amiably at her – much more friendly, it seemed, when he wasn't being threatened at gunpoint. Jazz decided to put the gun down on the table… after all, trust went two ways, didn't it?

Oh, these are dangerous waters you're getting into. Jazz's mind warned. She chose to ignore that warning.

"Well, sufficient to… keep you in line. In case you try anything sneaky," said Jazz, awkwardly. "Aghr, I'm sorry for putting you through all of this, but so many ghosts attack us that it's almost impossible to determine good from bad anymore! I hate it. My parents think all of you are here to destroy everything but I know that's not true. I've seen ghosts display conscience and morals and all sorts of things that mum and dad refuse to accept. It's all fear, and it's not fair. I feel so awful about it. I've probably turned around and even attacked so many of the good guys, it's terrible…"

The Ghostwriter was utterly taken aback – on the other hand, he now understood a lot more about why the girl was going to let him pass at all. She was doomed to a guilty conscience no matter what she did; either by not properly defending the city, or by refusing entry to those like him, who wanted nothing more than peace and would actively defend it, if necessary. Or at least, they would hide from the fighting, which made them no worse than most of the citizens anyway.

She looked like she had something else to say. He locked eyes with her, and waited.

"I-I need to ask something else of you," said Jazz, looking a little sick. "I'll let you through if you help me get my brother back!"

It was a need so great that it could completely transcend just about any negotiation; a sister's love for her brother and her desperation to see him conscious again. She'd give up a lot just for the chance of seeing that, and it would be an opportunity to earn her trust unlike any other. Sometimes stories began with requests like these, the writer mused…

… On the other hand, it wasn't the easiest of requests.

"I'll help if I can," said the writer. "But I'll be honest, I haven't the faintest clue on how to bring someone out of a coma. If my keyboard was working properly, maybe, but it's not functioning the way it's supposed to at the moment."

"Your keyboard?"

The Ghostwriter stopped himself in his tracks, and thought about what he was going to say. "Err… it's a special artefact. As for what it's supposed to do… let's talk about that another time, okay?"

"I'd like to talk about it now," said Jazz, unforgivingly. The writer sagged a little, and looked away.

"Don't get me wrong, I don't use it in a dangerous way."

Jazz's expression worsened.

"I use it to fix things, sometimes make things a bit more interesting. … Sometimes to teach certain individuals a lesson or two…"

"… But what does it do?" Jazz insisted. The Ghostwriter gave up.

"It combines with my power to rewrite aspects of reality," he sighed. "I know that sounds incredibly dangerous."

Her expression was unreadable again – at least to the writer, anyway, who had interacted with precious few people even in his living days – and she seemed to freeze where she sat. As a result he had little idea of how, exactly, one was supposed to handle people who were reacting like this, either. A few possibilities popped into his mind, but none of them were particularly preferable or even remotely appropriate. If they were both characters in a story he was writing, everything would have been fine, he'd have known exactly what to do! But unfortunately, this was real life and he knew little of what to do. So he decided just to pretend he didn't notice her discomfort and skipped ahead.

"You said you wanted to put some sort of tracker on me?"

"O-Oh, yes, I did," said Jazz, standing up quite suddenly. "Err… it might hurt a bit. It wasn't exactly designed with total comfort in mind."

The Ghostwriter nodded reluctantly. After Walker's hellhole of a prison, he could deal with pain. The prison visit, however, was something he'd really prefer to keep out of the discussion.

Jazz circled around him and came to a central table, where a much less lethal-looking weapon sat. On the outside it appeared to be a modified dart gun; obviously it stored some sort of technological tracking darts, although the writer would freely admit that he hadn't seen much technology other than his keyboard and what Technus occasionally carted past the library. Hesitantly, the ghost hunter's daughter picked it up. "You ready for this?"

The Ghostwriter nodded, and put the book he had brought with him down where the modified dart gun had previously lay. "Yes, just try to pick a spot without so many nerves."

"An arm will do," Jazz declared, brandishing the gun carefully. "Clench your teeth! … And please try not to scream."


End file.
